Changeling
by briarxrose
Summary: With a heart as cold as winter, Joanna Snow refuses to be part of the pack, choosing to run with lions instead of wolves. {AU}.
1. Cuckoo In The Nest

**Author's Note:** Videos for characters canon and original, can be found on my Youtube channel via the link on my profile.

* * *

 **Cuckoo In The Nest**

 _Ever close your eyes_  
 _Ever stop and listen_  
 _Ever feel alive_  
 _And you've nothing missing_ _..._

Joanna dug her legs into the mare's flanks; head bent low, grip grim on the reins, her fair hair whipping out behind her like a golden banner. She had been warned to leave the mare be; that it was too highly strung for anyone but the most experienced to ride, but characteristically Joanna hadn't listened, stealing the horse from the stables at the first chance she got, determined to be the one who won its temperamental trust. The mare was beautiful, the palest of dappled grey, but its beauty hid the beast within, a stableboy already losing the tip of his ear to its teeth, another almost his fingers.

"Joanna!" Robb Stark yelled as she galloped wildly into the courtyard, scattering people and poultry alike. " _Joanna!"_

"That's my name, lordling!" Joanna yelled back as Jon Snow darted through the throng, throwing himself forwards as she hurtled past, before grabbing the horse's halter, whilst on Jon's opposite side, Jory Cassel seized the horse at the same time, boy and man putting a swift stop to Joanna's wild progress between them.

"By the gods old and new, Joanna," Robb roared as he stalked over to where the now sullen Joanna sat astride the mare, skirts rucked up to her thighs, revealing an alarming expanse of pale bare leg, "have you taken leave of your senses as well as your modesty?"

Joanna's jaw tightened, but she said nothing, reluctantly allowing Jory to lift her down from the mare's back. Smoothing down her mud-splattered skirts, Joanna drew herself to her full height, meeting Robb's blazing blue gaze straight on. Despite Joanna being the elder, Robb was the one who held headship, assuming authority over his siblings, adopted or not, Joanna and Robb being raised as brother and sister after Eddard Stark had brought yet another Stark bastard into his fold.

Brandon Stark, wild and handsome, had made pretty promises to Joanna's mother that he couldn't keep, seducing her as he falsely spoke of seeking her hand in marriage. Joanna's mother had been the only child of an impoverished knight, and when wed, she would have brought no dowry or lands with her, only the honour of an ancient name nobody no longer cared to remember. Instead, Brandon was to wed another, forging an alliance with the House of Tully, and even as he knew he was to be a father, he had ridden to Riverrun regardless, only to receive the news his sister had been abducted by Rhaegar Targaryen, setting him on the road to war instead, ultimately leading to his end.

Joanna had been born during the height of Robert's Rebellion, her mother dying in childbed with her dead lover's name on her lips, Joanna being raised in the intervening years by her grandfather, Eddard Stark only setting eyes upon her once to assure himself she was Stark by blood if not in name, providing presents, clothes and most importantly an allowance that allowed them to keep body and soul together. Joanna had inherited her mother's hair and her father's grey gaze, but she knew no rule but her own, her grandfather trying and failing to shape her stubborn nature into more submissive lines. He had died when she was four years old, his heart giving out in the overgrown orchard that shadowed their ramshackle dwelling, leaving Joanna the last of her line.

Upon hearing his kin was in need, Eddard Stark had sternly set aside his wife's objections, and brought Joanna back to Winterfell to be raised alongside his own children, bastard and trueborn alike. He'd had no intention of undertaking Catelyn's suggestion of making Joanna a ward, delegating his duty to some distant lord. She was of his blood and he had been obliged to honour that, and so Catelyn now endured Joanna's presence just as she endured Jon's. With every waking hour, Catelyn was forced to face both her once betrothed's bastard and husband's bastard, their very existence an insult to her and hers.

As the courtyard cleared, Robb rounded on Joanna, his face bloodless. "Don't you have anything to say for yourself?" he snapped, making Joanna avert her eyes, mouth mutinous.

"Doesn't look like it," Jory observed, "but actions speak louder than words, don't they?" Exchanging a wry glance with Jon, he then led the trembling mare away, Robb watching them go before turning back to Joanna.

"You could have been killed, you know that!?" Robb bellowed, looming over Joanna, who just tilted her chin defiantly. "Are you really so intent on an early grave?"

"At least there's peace and quiet to be found in the grave," Joanna retorted, "I wouldn't be subjected to your fishwife tones for starters."

"Fishwife!?" Robb roared, suddenly grabbing her by the shoulders and giving her a good shake, making the teeth rattle in her head. "I'll give you fishwife, you stupid wench!"

"Get off me!" Joanna yelled, tearing herself free, shoving Robb hard in the chest, making him stagger. "You're not my keeper!"

"Enough!" Jon shouted, throwing himself into the fray, dragging them apart. "We shouldn't fight amongst ourselves!"

"Save your breath, Snow," Robb growled, "she's always been outside the pack. She doesn't want to belong" -

\- "How can a bastard _belong_ , lordling?" Joanna hissed. "Not when Winterfell will fall into your lap like a ripe apple" -

Without another word, Robb turned and left, his furlined cloak whirling behind him. Joanna watched him go, her heart suddenly feeling hollow, realising too late she'd crossed an unspoken line by telling the truth. She knew what she was, what her place in the world would be, that Robb would inherit what might have been hers. Even as a bitter affection existed between them, Joanna knew status would soon tear them asunder, Robb rising in the world whilst she sunk even lower.

"Jo," Jon said quietly, holding out a ragged piece of cloth, "here."

"Ever the gentleman, aren't you?" Joanna sneered, wiping her eyes with the inside of her embroidered sleeve instead, the intricate stitching scraping her skin.

Flushing hotly, Jon hastily shoved the piece of cloth back in his pocket, her sneer striking him like a blow. "I was only trying to help," he said gruffly. "Why do you always bite a kind hand?"

"We're wolves."

"We're bastards," Jon said, exhaling sharply, "and Robb and the others aren't. We exist outside the pack just... just as Robb said."

"So?" Joanna said, shrugging her shoulders. "We make our own pack."

Jon looked at her for a long moment. "Robb doesn't want it to be that way," he said slowly.

"Oh really?" Joanna flared up, "What does he do when sweet Sansa sticks her nose up at us or when his mother makes us dine at separate tables" –

\- "He tries," Jon said, rounding on her as Robb had, "he knows he can't change anything, but he tries anyways. "

"What does it matter if he tries or not?" Joanna spat, only for her head to suddenly jerk up, her grey eyes becoming shuttered.

Jon turned around, only to see Eddard Stark striding towards them, his face grim, Jory by his side, shoulders hunched. "I won't let him whip you," he said under his breath, stepping protectively in front of Joanna, even as he was quaking inside, "I promise."

Joanna didn't say anything, hiding her trembling hands behind her back, out of sight. Eddard, or Ned as he was known to those who swore loyalty to his sigil, dispensed harsh discipline on a daily basis, but he tempered his strictness with stern kindness.

"Joanna," Ned said abruptly, his gaze travelling over Jon, before coming to a rest on his niece, forcing her to step fowards, "what's this I hear of you taking out that mare without permission? Didn't I warn you to leave it be?"

Joanna bit her lip. "Yes, Uncle," she said, shifting from one foot to the next.

Ned studied her for a moment, before suddenly reaching out and cupping her chin. "You are not a child, anymore, Joanna," he said quietly, turning her face from side to side, studying her slanting eyes which changed moods like the sky, "but a woman, and you must start acting so. Do you hear me?"

Joanna stared at him, her brows drawing together, lending her a wolfish look. "You are not my father," she said from between gritted teeth, "so do not act so."

Ned let go of her, his large hand dropping to his side. "You are mine," he said simply, "as much as Sansa and Arya. So you will heed my words as they do, and obey them as they do. "

Joanna just looked away, fighting the tears threatening to fall again, feeling caught between what she was and what she should have been.

Ned looked at her, suddenly losing patience. "Go and change your gown," he snapped, "and don't bother coming down to dinner. Maybe an empty stomach will make you understand the error of your ways better than I can."

Joanna turned and left, gathering up her skirts as she ran, her pale hair rippling down her back like dying sunlight.

"Jon," Ned then said, turning to Jon, startling him, "I have need of you... son."

Jon froze, before straightening his spine, trying to look like the man he wanted to be rather than the boy he really was. "What do you require of me, Lord Stark?" he said stiffly, even as his lonely heart stored away the memory of this moment, when his father had called him 'son'.

"A guardsman just rode in from the hills," Ned said, exhaling sharply, "they've captured a deserter from the Night's Watch."


	2. Winds of Change

**Winds of Change**

"The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword," Bran murmured sleepily as Joanna carried him to his bedchamber, his arms knotted around her neck. He had been telling her of the man his father had beheaded that afternoon for desertion from the Night's Watch, Bran's childish mind awhirl with what the deserter had said before he'd died, that the White Walkers had returned, the knowledge frightening Bran even as it thrilled him.

"It is the old way," Joanna said quietly, "and the only way." After her uncle and cousins had left to deal with the deserter, she had paced the floor for hours like a caged animal, the blood seething through her veins. She had tried to sew, mending a set of smallclothes, only to fling them across the room, unable to settle down, intent on insurrection.

"Jon made me watch," Bran said, burying his face in her shoulder, muffling his words. After dinner, he had hidden himself away, struggling to subdue his fears, before Joanna had accidentally stumbled across him. Once all was quiet, she'd crept out of her room, armed with the intention of raiding the kitchens for some bread and cheese, refusing to be starved into submission, only to find Bran hidden in a high alcove, his pale face peering down at her through the darkness.

"You are a brave boy," Joanna said firmly, even as she secretly railed against how Bran was being raised. Joanna believed such rites of passage only threatened to brutalize Bran; that a boy couldn't bear a man's burdens. But Joanna couldn't fight fate, tradition dictating Bran's destiny as it did hers.

Bran tensed at this. "Have the White Walkers really come back?" he suddenly blurted out, raising his head as he spoke, his words startling Joanna. "Will they come to Winterfell?"

Joanna slowed to a stop, carefully setting Bran onto his feet, before kneeling down so she was eye-level with him. "The White Walkers are gone," she said sternly, grabbing his shoulders, resisting the urge to shake some sense into him, "they're just a tale to tell around the fire on a cold night."

"Father said the deserter was mad," Bran said, his brown eyes wide and earnest, his small face worried, "that a madman only sees what he sees. But what happens if he wasn't mad? What happens if he was telling the truth and we didn't listen?"

"Then we burn them," Joanna said simply, letting go of him, before rising to her feet, "we burn them all."

Bran frowned. "That's what old Aerys said," he said, shifting from one foot to the next, "before the Kingslayer stabbed him in the back."

Joanna paled. "It's time for bed," she snapped, grabbing his hand, "the hour is late." She hurried down the passage, Bran barely keeping up, Joanna ignoring his protests. A storm was stirring in her heart, but she knew she had nobody to blame but herself, speaking without thinking. Aerys II Targaryen had murdered both her father and grandfather, leaving Joanna wondering what her life would have been like if they had lived.

Would Brandon have acknowledged her existence? Or would he have abandoned her, seeing her as an impediment to achieving an advantageous alliance? The latter seemed most likely, yet what had led him to her mother in the first place? Lust? Love? Did duty or desire drag him to Riverrun that fateful day? Did his father, Lord Rickard, force Brandon to choose between his head and his heart? Would her grandfather have shunned her as well, or would he have set aside his son's sins and rejoiced in his first grandchild, baseborn or not?

"Joanna?"

She whirled around, only to see Jon, his face concerned. "Jon," she said, her voice cracking, forcing herself to set aside the past for the present, "you are... back."

"I have been back a while," Jon tried to joke, only for his face to fall back into its usual anxious lines. "You shouldn't be out here," he said urgently, glancing around them, "not unless you want a whipping."

"So you keep surmising," Joanna snapped.

"Father would never whip Joanna," Bran piped up querously.

"Your mother thoroughly recommends it though as a remedy for my wilful ways," Joanna retorted, "now bed!"

"I'll take him," Jon said quickly, taking Bran by the hand, "you should return to your own room before somebody sees you."

Joanna turned on her heel, not bothering to waste anymore words, leaving Jon and Bran staring after her. As soon as she was out of sight, she stopped, leaning her forehead against the cool stone of the wall. She had been four years old when she'd become aware of what she was, Eddard Stark taking her away from everything she had ever known. But she had refused to leave, Jory carrying her over his shoulder like a carpet, Joanna kicking and screaming all the way to Winterfell.

It had been one of the squires who had called her a vicious little bastard after she'd bitten him, Joanna having to be dragged from the wheelhouse, attacking anyone who'd dared to approach her. She had flung the same epithet at Ned's head that night, and he had quietly asked her where she'd heard such a phrase, the sorrow in his stare striking her like a blow, making the storm suddenly leave her. He had then sat down, drawing her onto his knee as if she were his daughter, before telling the tale of her father and his fate, what it now meant for her own; that she was baseborn, and as a bastard she had no claim to her birthright.

Exhaling sharply, Joanna straightened up, pushing the hair out of her eyes, her chest heaving. Even as Ned had made of a point of emphasizing she would always be taken care of, Joanna had retreated into herself, closing her heart off from a now harsh world.

Robb and Jon had been her only companions, the former dominating and defending her in equal measure, the latter trailing at their heels. But after Sansa's birth, their days together in the nursery had been limited, and in the intervening years, Joanna had been forced to learn how to be a lady, Sansa succeeding where she failed, Arya following in Joanna's footsteps, much to Catelyn's chagrin. Yet as Joanna reached womanhood, she had soon found herself somewhere between servant and sister; one day she would be helping launder the delicate linen whilst Sansa and Arya idled; the next day she was improving her deplorable deportment through the means of pavanes and quadrilles, Robb putting her through her paces, her hands caught in his, like an animal in a trap.

At the thought of Robb, Joanna suddenly turned and kicked the wall, the immediate jolt of agony shooting through her like flame, causing her to curse aloud, hopping undignifiedly from one foot to the other.

"Who is there!?"

Joanna froze at the forbidding tones of Septa Mordane, her eyes widening in alarm, before backing away, frantically trying to find a way out, the older woman's voice echoing oddly, making it hard to divine what direction it was emanating from. Whilst Joanna had never been whipped, despite Jon's dire predictions to the contrary, other means of discipline were used, and Septa Mordane had a genius for punishment, ranging from the humble to the humiliating, Joanna usually the one who endured the measures she employed.

Only the other week, Arya had balanced a pail of water atop a door, wherein it had tipped over and struck Septa Mordane rather than Sansa who it had been originally intended for, soaking the septa into hysterics. Joanna had borne the blame, not seeing the point in exposing Arya to further fruitless discipline, and so it had been Joanna who had to sit in the Great Hall for a whole morning, wearing the pail on her head like a crown, attracting a gawking audience, until her uncle had dismissed her, sick of the sight.

Holding her breath. Joanna crept back down the corridor, going back the way she came, keeping to the shadows, only relaxing when the silence became overwhelming. As she turned on the spot, she realised Robb's chambers were only a few doors away, and seized by a sudden impulse, she suddenly set off in their direction, feet almost flying across the floor.

"Robb!" she cried, bursting through the door. "Forgive me for" -

Robb whirled around, knocking over the wooden soldiers he'd been lining up in a row atop the stone mantelpiece, scattering them like leaves. "Seven hells, Joanna!" he exclaimed, folding his arms across his bare chest. He was only wearing a loose pair of breeches, his face flaming beneath his rumpled red curls, Robb looking at Joanna as if she was a grumkin straight out of Old Nan's hearth tales.

Joanna stared at him. "Are you still playing with soldiers?" she then said haughtily, recovering her composure, tossing her tangled hair back, conveniently forgetting the relics of childhood littering her own chambers.

"No, I don't," Robb lied, reddening further as Joanna raised her eyebrows at the sight of the wooden fort in the far corner.

"You should have given all that to Bran and Rickon a long time ago," Joanna said, waltzing over to his unmade bed, before flinging herself atop it, arms outstretched. "And you should change your linen, it reeks."

"You reek," Robb retorted, snatching up a cambric shirt, before pulling it over his head, "and you need to brush your hair. Were you not supposed to change your gown too?"

"You heard, then?" Joanna observed idly.

"Obviously you did not."

"This is my favourite gown," Joanna said pettishly, sitting up, "I made it myself."

"You're a good seamstress," Robb said tiredly, startling Joanna, "even Mother said so."

Joanna flung herself back onto the bed again. "I'm surprised," she said, brow furrowing. "Your mother isn't given to compliments."

"She gives praise where praise is due," Robb flared up, "and you rarely give her the opportunity."

"I don't desire your mother's approval."

"What do you hold dear in your heart, then, if not a high opinion?" Robb pressed. "What do you desire?"

Joanna glanced at Robb out of the corner of her eye, only to see his stern face, the sight making her brow furrow further. "A great holding?" she snapped, propping herself on one elbow. "A lord to love me? Several brats around my neck? Is that what you want me to say? That's what I should say, shouldn't I?"

"Get out of my bed," Robb ordered, evading an answer, "you shouldn't even be in here."

"You should be grateful I'm not Jeyne Poole," Joanna grumbled, "she's beyond desperate to bear your heirs."

"Are you jealous?" Robb said mockingly, throwing himself down onto the windowseat, resting his arm atop the sill.

"You might be a pretty prospect," Joanna said coolly, getting to her feet, "but you're below my notice."

"Oh, really?" Robb snapped. "Some would say you were below mine."

" _All_ would say I was below your notice," Joanna flung back, pushing the hair out of her eyes. "Don't play the gallant."

"I'm not."

"Really?"

"It would make sense for us to wed," Robb said simply, startling Joanna, "you would be safe, and you would have Winterfell, like you always should have."

Joanna stared at him, speechless. "I don't want you though," she blurted out. "With Winterfell or not, I don't want you."

Robb leaned his head back. "I see you're not given to compliments either," he said dryly.

"Seven hells, Robb!" Joanna snapped, mistress of herself again. "I care about you, but not in that way – never in that way" -

\- "That would be enough," Robb said quietly, "you would care about _me_ , not about any of this," he gestured around him, "of the privilege, the grandeur. You might not want me, but at least I would be sure of you."

"But you speak of Winterfell" -

\- "You want Winterfell as your home," Robb cut across her, "not as a portal of power. I will inherit Winterfell, but it should have been yours. If it had been so, we would have been betrothed in the cradle, a union to protect the North" -

\- "Damn the North!" Joanna spat. "Whatever has it done for me except condemn and blame? If the White Walkers have really come back, they are welcome to the North! -

\- "Joanna" -

\- "I don't want your charity, Robb," Joanna hissed, "for your pity to procure me the title of Lady of Winterfell. One day you will be King of the North, and you will scorn me, and that is what should be."

Robb bowed his head. "For what it's worth, Joanna," he said tiredly, "I don't want you either. But I want to protect you" -

\- "From what?" Joanna said incredulously. "This isn't a game of come-into-my-castle or monsters-and-maidens. We're not children anymore"... Her voice trailed off as she realised she was quoting Ned's words, _you are not a child, anymore, Joanna, but a woman, and you must start acting so..._

"Mother thinks the time has come for you to marry," Robb said bluntly, making Joanna's head snap up, all the blood draining from her face, "I heard her arguing with Father about it. She... she thinks it will... quell the wildness in your blood."

Joanna studied Robb, not missing the blush creeping up the back of his neck. "You mean she doesn't want to be saddled with another little bastard," she said, her voice cracking, understanding his inference, "if I am to be bedded, she wants me to swear my vows in the godswood first, but I am not my mother's daughter. I am no slut!"

"I know that," Robb said, his own voice cracking, "but perhaps you shouldn't judge your mother as mine judges you."

Joanna just stood there, fists clenching by her sides, fighting the rising tears. "Who is the fool willing to win my hand, then?" she said bitterly.

Robb hesitated before naming her potential suitors, men loyal to the direwolf sigil, men of property, good men, but all old enough to be Joanna's father, or grandfather in some instances. What struck Joanna though was the distance of their holdings from Winterfell, Catelyn obviously intent on banishing her to the beyond.

"What does your father make of your mother's schemes?" Joanna said through gritted teeth. "No doubt he approves."

"He doesn't," Robb said, getting to his feet, "in a few years, perhaps, but for the time being, he thinks you are too immature to enter an alliance, no matter how advantageous. He would also prefer you to wed closer to home, perhaps Jon or Theon" -

\- "Jon!?" Joanna choked out. " _Theon!?_ "

"Jon is kind," Robb said, exhaling sharply, "he cares much for you... even if he's never met a girl yet he likes better than his own hair."

Something that might have been a sob or a laugh escaped Joanna's lips. "Theon though?" she scoffed."The son of a traitor!? Even a bastard can aspire to higher than that!"

Robb turned away. "I don't have a choice either," he said soberly, "when my time comes, and it's coming, somebody else will decide my heart's desire – it will be my parents who will approve of the match, not me."

"Don't let them, then!"

"That's what I am telling you!"

Joanna looked at Robb for a long moment, suddenly feeling very old. "Is that what you really want?" she said brokenly. "To wed a bastard, breaking your mother's heart" -

\- "It would be better than marrying a stranger I cared nothing for" -

\- "Love doesn't come into it, and it never has" -

\- "It should" -

\- "It didn't for your parents" -

\- "Not at the beginning," Robb snapped, "but love grew between them, and they're happy now – _we_ could be happy" -

\- "No, Robb," Joanna cut across him, his certainty starting to scare her, "you must not speak so, like some sentimental serving wench" -

\- "No, I shouldn't speak so," Robb cut across her in turn, turning away from her, hiding his flayed feelings, "but you are right - we... we are not children any longer, and we cannot continue so, as if we still are" -

\- "You are tired, Robb," Joanna interrupted again, his words howling through her hollow heart like wind, "you do not know what you are saying. You fear the future, and so do I, but we must meet it bravely."

 _And my head told my heart_  
 _Let love grow_  
 _But my heart told my head_  
 _This time no..._


End file.
